The Year in Retrospect

or

Another frigging "Best Of/Worst Of"

It's that time of year, kids and kidettes. 2002, in most respects, wasn't a year I can comment upon extensively as a consumer. For one thing, the first half of the year I had little to no money to see the films I wanted, and the books I wanted to read remained elusively out of print. For another thing, once I had the money, I didn't have the time or energy to properly immerse myself into the medium as much as is my wont.

For me, it's not enough to simply watch a movie. You've got to have an hour or so afterwards to list its technical and symbolic successes and failures (quart of Guiness mandatory). After that, I've got to read a few well-respected Internet reviews (or, if Rotten Tomatoes isn't cutting it, Peter Travers or Roger Ebert will do in a pinch) and get the gist of what other people are saying about it. If any of it is good, and non-copyrighted, it's mine for the taking, and a good four hours of such research is well worth the energy leeched and real work neglected (bottle of bourbon optional). Then I write my own review, revise (bottle of glue to be sniffed mandatory), publish, and then yank it back off to put in a few gems of wisdom. All too often, what's running through my head is, "Hey, look at this piece of gold, maggots! I'm head and shoulders above you all! Hell, I'm fuckin' Shakespeare!"

Of course, once the "you screwed up" e-mails roll in ("that comment about misogyny in Mission Impossible: II can't even be called ill-founded since that would assume you founded it on anything in the first place") or, even better, nothing at all ("review? what review? hey, you want to buy some Internet porn?"), such grandeurs hardly endure. It usually takes another bottle or two of glue to set me straight again.

Still, I've done the best I can keeping up, perhaps not so much with what America (or popular America, or popular white-boy America, or whatever) would consider hot or not, but at least with what I believe should be highly-regarded or not. And since it's always been easier to rip apart than to praise, let me start with:

The P.U.s of 2002

Straight Out Worst Movie: Master of Disguise--Admittedly I didn't see this one. But I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that any movie starring a man who not only disguises himself as a turtle, or calls himself a turtle, or sticks his head back and forth and reiterates "Tuuuurtle...tuuuurtle..." but is also meant to be taken humorously will probably not replace Citizen Kane on the AFI list. Nuff said.

Worst sequel: Men In Black II. I only considered the first one so-so, but this one takes the taco. Cute, cuddly singing dogs, a hackneyed love story and more of those stupid worms. Give it up already.

Worst trailer: The Matrix Reloaded. It's just not long enough. So there.

Worst style: Avril Lavigne. I never heard of her until I casually asked someone what the deal was with all these girls wearing men's designer clothes. Then I heard the music. Then I heard the music combined with the sight of the performer, and I remembered how parents used to complain about Madonna's bare belly. Somehow, I can't help feeling nostalgic.

Worst argument: Anything Dick Cheney said about the necessity of war on Iraq. Weapons inspectors list dozens of assertions about Iraq's lack of threat to the U.S., from their inability to construct weapons of mass destruction to their inability to get them to reach the U.S. Cheney's response? "They're lying. Next question." Were I to receive such a response in my writing class, I doubt even I could be sweet-talked out of giving an F on the logos appeal.

Worst cliche: Although "my bad" seemed to be edging out of the average adolescent's vocabulary by late 2000, it has recently come back by a landslide. If you examine the etymology behind the phrase, some admission of guilt is implied. If you listen to its use today, it would remind you more of a Catholic dogma of forgiveness. I busted a kid for swearing in class, to which he responded, "Oh, my bad," and then couldn't believe I had to follow through with a detention. "I said my bad!" he screeched, to which I responded, "And I said 'You're right.'"

Worst cable TV screwup: Transformers Armada. I never thought the day would come when I would say 80's animation kicks the shit out of the new millenium's. Haven't we been treated to such eye-strippers as Princess Mononoke or even, I guess, Shrek? Can't they do better for a Transformers revival than a bunch of blockheaded robots stumbling around, moving their mouths but nothing else while they fight? And the story? "Little robots give us power! Soon they will be mine! Ah hahahahahaha!" That's not worth getting up early for on a Saturday morning. It's not even worth leaving work for on a weekday (not that that stops me).

Second Worst cable TV screwup: The Cartoon Network finally decides to rerun Futurama, only it's on at 11 p.m. Sunday through Thursday! The local taxpayers don't let me stay up that late!

Now for the hard part. I've got to extol the work of others. 2002 was host to a number of either dubious successes, or semi-promising indicators, which, when you're having a bad year, is probably the best you can hope for. In no particular order:

The Dubious Successes or Semi-Promising Indicators of 2002

(pardon the redundancy)

Best Film: Road to Perdition. A lot of people scoffed at any claims that Tom Hanks deserved an Academy Award for his role in Cast Away. As The Critic Jay Sherman complained, "Where's he gonna put it?" Still, there's no way to step over true talent, even if it keeps knocking you over the head year after year. Hanks has proved his mettle in this gripping piece of work, and if that weren't enough, there's still Paul Newman and Jude Law to consider. Most likely this one will be short-changed since it came out over the summer, but here's hoping anyway.

Most Pleasant Cinematic Surprise: Robin Williams. I always had a high opinion of his acting (such turkeys as Death to Smoochy aside), but this year's One Hour Photo and Insomnia cast him in entirely new roles, with sometimes surprising and always pleasing results. I hear Williams was a pain in the ass in high school as a kid because of his gifted intelligence. With these films under his belt, I'm almost willing to forgive him as an educator, but not until he comes back as Edward Nygma/The Riddler in a future Batman movie.

Best Trend-setter: Spider-Man. It's about time they did a movie based on one of the comics' more popular characters (I can't fucking believe Captain America had a series in the 90's before the Wall Crawler), and the whole thing seems to have set off an avalanche of Marvelesque films (Daredevil, The Hulk, and, if rumors are to be believed, some day The Fantastic Four to name a few). Bring it on. Bring it all on. When you get to Ant-Man, though, give it a rest.

Best musical release: The Iron Maiden Boxed Set. No, really. You can take your Eminems and Susan Tidechis and shove them. Shove them sideways, if they'll fit. This selection isn't just about the music--it's about the merchandise as well. My brother latched onto the coolest boxed set in the world for my Christmas present, and the fact that Iron Maiden did it is only incidental. Believe me, it hurts to admit this, dedicated Maiden fan that I am, but we're talking about a boxed set complete with tin box (death's head glaring at you from the cover), shot glass, band family tree bound in metal, and three (3) two-disc sets of music. One of them delivers the long-awaited B-sides which, even if you're not a Maiden fan, will knock your socks off. It covers a lot of ground, and it kicks a lot of ass. Brother, I take back (almost) everything bad I ever said about you.

Best Indication of a Shitty New Millenium: Public Contempt for the Underdog. Sounds hazy, but let me explain: The underdog used to be a popular figure, one that we could all identify with. He may not get his way all the time, and he may get kicked around by people bigger than him (Charlie Brown, Droopy Dog, George Bush Sr.), but sooner or later, he gets his comeuppance. Nowadays, the underdogs are either way under us (Jackass: The Movie), too cutesy-cuddly-ignorant to ever get fazed (Sponge Bob), or else they get a few ideas of their own and start venting their aggressions on the rest of the world (George Bush Jr., Bill Gates). So what are we left with? Underdogs to the underdogs. Since when did bulging muscles and a square jaw ever remotely spell "stereotypical loser"? If that's a product of the new millenium, then this millenium is going to suck the royal root.

Best Use of CGI to Display Bug Creatures Fighting Jedi Knights: Attack of the Clones. (Upon close scrutiny, you'll find I had to create a category for that one, or it never would have made any Best Of lists. Whaddya gonna do?)

Best Piece of News: Historian Howard Zinn (A People's History of the United States of America--this link is to an audio reading, by the way) is joining forces with Ben Affleck and Matt Damon to do a television adaptation of Emma for HBO (based on Emma Goldman, a renowned American rebel and outspoken opponent of World War I who was exiled for her pains). Any day history becomes the driving force beneath a piece of popular media is a tallymark for us all, myself included. I understand Zinn wants to write screenplays (for Hollywood?)--be warned about Faulkner and Fitzgerald's issues (as if you have to warn a historian like Zinn about anything that already happened).

Oh yeah...

Unless I forgot to fill out a form, or pay a fee, or some damn thing, I now have my Master's. Or so they would have me believe. You know the old line "The check is in the mail?" Same thing here.

It occurred to me last night that I was missing my graduation ceremony. Bummer. But the final essays were calling me. It should surprise no one that I claim to be a student of irony (look at the past several months of my life for proof), and I find the fact that all the essays I had to grade prevented me from going anywhere that night, even though I felt no burning urge to grade them. I find that very ironic indeed.

Either that, or it's just stupid.

As per wiggolation:

Sundays have ceased to exist for me. Literally. It's always been that way, even at points during my childhood. As Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes said, "Any day you have to take a bath and go to bed early isn't a day off in my book." Translate that to my life and it reads: "Any day you've got to grade papers, prep for tomorrow, fret, worry and obsess over lesson plans isn't even half a day off in my book since, when you wake up at eight, or ten, or twelve, or whatever, you're already worried about falling behind."

And I wish I were smart enough to leave it all alone Friday nights and Saturdays. I really do. But no one ever said I was bright...just cute.

Does it isolate you? You betcha:

Friend: Hey man, how you doing?
Me: I'm working. Some of us have to work over break, you know.
Friend: Yeah, uh...anyway, a bunch of us are getting together tonight. You coming?
Me: I would, but then I'd have four hours less of my weekend. And I need those hours to fret and stare at the wall, worrying about lesson plans.
Friend: Come on, man. It's Saturday night.
Me: Ha. For you it's Saturday night, maybe. For me, and all other dedicated teachers out there, it's recharge time. I'm going to watch Lean on Me and take notes, so that I can finally get my students eating out of my hand the way they already would be, if I were worth a damn at my job.
Friend: Have you ever thought about getting psychiatric help?
Me: Have you ever thought about going into teaching? It's the noblest profession there is.
Friend: Not from where I'm sitting.

An exaggeration, to be sure. But only slightly.

Still:

Top Five Places I'll be Come Christmas Break

5. Not near school.
4. Not under the bed.
3. Not by school.
2. Not in the school library, desperately searching for films detailing the use of a restrictive clause in an expository essay.
1. Not in school.

Like others out there, I've got to get back in the habit of my old writing style. Hard to do when you're worrying about someone looking over your shoulder. Maybe I need a cool nickname, like Stick Boy, or Gargantuan.

It's a sad fucking state of affairs when you realize you'd have to study a few hours to pass your own final exam. Fortunately, that doesn't apply to me--I could get it down cold in an hour and a half. Yeah. You bet. At any rate, it's done, which would be cause for celebration if I didn't have some other papers to take care of and a few chapters to prep for tomorrow. Thank God all my paperwork is in order for my observation tomorrow--I found out about it just as I was prepping a video and doping out a syllabus for the annual Pre-Final Exams Week Juggling Contest.

Actually, that could work pretty well.

A Sandwich Never Tasted So Bad

No such luck drinking beer and burning stuff in Dewey's back yard last night--the little one got sick, so we couldn't go. But we did do the next best thing (if you ignore about a thousand other possibilities, that is)--go see a movie in Sandwich.

The Ring has its pluses, and if I get my computer back this week, hopefully I'll have time to write a review (now that I'm not slugging away through literary criticism, that is). But Sandwich itself deserves immediate mention.

First of all, Susan (whom I had the distinct pleasure of talking to yesterday, and Susan, baby, I know you're lurking, so don't pretend you aren't blushing with pride over that one, and make sure your damned e-mail goes through this time) mentioned to me she'd taught there all last year, even after my dire warnings (which I don't remember giving and rarely heed myself, so who am I to talk?). Susan had intimated that the phrase "keeping it in the family" took on dire overtones in this quaint little village, and a first impression of its citizens did not tend to disprove such a theory. Kim and I sat in the front row at the local multiplex, and within two minutes of having gotten settled, we were surrounded on the other three sides by gabbing, rude, and generally shitheaded teenagers.

Siskel and Ebert these kids were not. Shit, I would have been satisfied with Roeper and Rutiger. For example, in one tension-inspiring scene, the heroine approaches a closed door with some kind of liquid trailing out of it. "Blood," one of these degenerates muttered behind me. "It's gotta be blood."

"She's gonna step in it!" his girlfriend squealed, to which there were several gasps of astonishment at this leap in reasoning. I shoveled more popcorn in my mouth to try and drown out the noise of ten brains coming to a grinding halt, but Kim wasn't having any of it--she hissed several words at them, and those words were not Happy Birthday.

Then, the heroine gets closer, and we see that there's no red tint. "Oh, it's not blood," another one of them announces, to which the others grunt assent. Oh man, if I didn't have a critic to point these things out to me, I don't know what I would do...

The heroine flings the door open, and we see a genuinely freaky sequence of shots: a staccato of black and white images, bodies, severed fingers, insects and other unsettling juxtapositions of the serene with the out of place (courtesy of cinematographer Bojan Bazelli, who didn't attempt anything like this in turkies like Surviving the Game or Kalifornia--could it be more screenwriter-inspired?). Since none of these Last Picture Show casting rejects had their Ritalin this morning, this of course sent them into a frenzy, and I heard one of them remark several times over, "This is a really fuckin' creepy movie." Just what we needed. More local insight.

What I wanted to do was turn around and say, "Your observations are fascinating. They really are. But I can't possibly stay on such an abstract level of analysis, so if you could just, you know, keep your firm grasp of the obvious down to a gentle murmur inside your head--which, by the way, is called thinking--I really would appreciate it."

But sarcasm never goes over well with these rubes. I know from experience. So what wound up escaping after all was: "Shut up! Christ!" (I've been pretty good about not taking the Lord's name in vain lately, but this time it slipped out. I like to think of it as a call for help, though--as in, "Help me, oh Lord, before I remember that your commandments only direct us not to kill humans.")

Still, there was an acceptable level of silence throughout the rest of the movie. Maybe I've learned a few tricks after all.

I can say, with some justifiable pride, that relatively few of my students would have behaved in such a manner, and those that would have most likely would not have been wearing Varsity letterman jackets and sporting "I'm a Fuckin' Honors Student" bumper stickers. So maybe geography plays a part after all.

Either that, or radium levels in the water.

The Comprehensive Exam is Oh-vah!

I can't help feeling like something of a schmuck. There were two possibilities for me to answer, and only two of the works were even on the freaking test (one work per!). No cross-comparisons; no compare/contrast. Just "Give me the dirt on women in Frankenstein" and "So what's the big deal with the witches in Macbeth?"

Well, I chose the Frankenstein one, and managed to fill up an entire blue book (both sides of the pages, doublespaced) that, I think, more or less answered the question. My brain never really got above second gear, though (hardly a surprise to me, considering my mental drive in last year's exam), and as a result, I kept thinking that my answer, while covering all the bases, seemed overly simplistic. I mean, I wasn't even inserting Lacanism, or that much Freudianism. I wasn't introducing the concept of the gaze, I didn't address Foucault's theories, and I didn't even fucking mention the word "antidisestablishmentarianism," much less "textual instabilities." So what gives?

Well, I'll tell you what gives:

If I fail the test again, I have to take another 15 hours here at good ole NIU before I can take it a third time. So I'm thinking that, if I do fail (God forbid), I'm just going to have to go back to school anyway. I mean, it's a lit exam that I should be able to pass. If I can't, there's something wrong with teh repository of information I'm supposed to have shoved into this cranial crap-bin I call a brain. Last year, after the exam, I always figured that I'd substitute teach out here and study full-time if I failed, but then Discover Card called me and scheduled an ass-kicking appointment to remind me of my pecuniary obligations. So that didn't work out. Thus I wasn't able to put in the kind of hours I'd have liked to in studying for this test.

But the question was so simplistic, that if I don't pass, I'm just going to have to go back to the basics. What a shame: no more tardy forms, detentions and field trips through LP. I think my heart is breaking.

No, it's not. It's just that sirloin I had for lunch before the test. Mmm, sirloin.

"Objection Overruled, or You can always go to law school if things don’t work out" by Taylor Mali.

I couldn't find the original author site, so I had to go through soularized.com. I saw Taylor perform this poem on HBO Friday night, and a better second wind I could not have asked for. Great stuff, especially when read out loud. Put a lot of today's introverted mush-poetry to shame.

Things to do at your girlfriend's high school reunion:

5) Look through old yearbooks for dorky outdated hairstyles and personal quotes.
4) Hunt up old boyfriends. Compare notes.
3) Hit on her old girlfriends. Get turned down in front of her and announce loudly, "Well, she can tell you what you're missing out on. Go ahead, babe, tell her."
2) Demand to see official high school transcripts of everyone present. Lament the lack of education present in such a drunken group of reprobates.
1) Ask everyone you see: "So really, no fooling, how dumb is the average graduate of your class?"

I didn't think of any of this until too late, but maybe Kim can use it at my reunion next year. The whole thing was a ripoff, honestly enough--$50 a head at the Pheasant Run didn't even buy us an open bar, much less anything palatable to eat. A giant hors d'ouveres table, oh my! What, was White Hen's deli all sold out?

Phone Companies Are Either the Root of All Evil or Ignorance, but I Don't Know Which

Finally got an ISP provider, but I can't even tell if it's local. Here's a true story, and if it doesn't make the books for Dumbest Phone Company Conversation Ever, I don't know what will:

Me: Hi, I was calling to see whether or not I could check to see whether phone numbers are local from my home phone again.
Representative: Wait, I don't understand. You want to see whether you can see something or not?
Me: Yes, that's right. I'm getting the Internet in my apartment and I want to make sure I don't get billed long distance for my calls.
Rep: Okay, where do you live? (I give all necessary information) Hmm. Funny, but I don't show your town as existing.
Me: Well, it exists all right. I'm sitting right here.
Rep: You're sure you're not annexed to a nearby town or something? That happened to my Aunt Sally. She lived in Waco, but all along she thought it was actually the town of Elkhorn.
Me: No, I receive mail here, and I've lived here before. It's an actual town.
Rep: Well that's not what happened to my aunt.
Me: That's damned interesting. Now about checking those numbers...
Rep: Will you hold please?
Me: Do I have a choice?
(I'm on hold for two minutes. Listening to Boone's "You Light Up My Life." Dry heaving starts momentarily.)
Rep: Sir, I'm sorry to make you hold. Now I'll need the actual phone number you're thinking of using.
Me: No prob. (give it to him) So what's the deal?
Rep: Ah. Well, I'm afraid that's not going to tell me. See, our computers are down, and because you haven't gotten a bill yet, I can't tell what service plan you're using.
Me: Oh.
Rep: However, usually if you don't have to dial a 1 before the number, it's not long distance.
Me: I understand that. I seriously doubt this number I gave you is long distance--it's only four miles away or so.
Rep: You knew that? Then why were you calling?
Me: Because I want to make sure there are no charges for local calls. Nobody ever told me and you're the third person I'm calling.
Rep: I see. Will you hold for a second, please?
Me: Oh man, I was hoping you'd say that.
(On hold for three minutes. "Strangers In the Night." Dry heaving resumes.)
Rep: Okay, sir, I'm sorry to ask you to hold.
Me: That's okay, I'm getting used to it. (I actually said all this, mind you.)
Rep: Well, anyway, to answer your question, I would need to know what Call Range you're in, whether it's A, B, C or D.
Me: I have that. I'm in Range A.
Rep: (crestfallen) You have that?
Me: Yes, the last service representative gave it to me. Does that help out at all?
Rep: Actually, no. You see, it could still be long distance, and even if it's not, you could still get charged.
Me: How much?
Rep: Let me check on that for you. Hold, please.
Me: No, wait, don't put me on--
(On hold for six minutes. "Wind Beneath My Wings." Need I say more?)
Rep: Sir? Are you there?
Me: No, I went out to take a pee.
Rep: It's always a pleasure dealing with disgruntled customers. I can't seem to get any details about the ranges because our computers are down.
Me: Yeah, you mentioned that before. So what are you doing while I'm on hold, then?
Rep: I was checking with my supervisor.
Me: You weren't just leaving me dangling so it would seem like you were working on it, were you?
Rep: (pause) No.
Me: So there's no one there who can tell me whether or not this call I'm about to make is local, long distance or what have you?
Rep: (pause) No.
Me: I see.
Rep: But you could try back in a few days. Maybe then our computers will be up.
Me: You better not be teasing me. I won't get any sleep tonight now.

I only wish I could be creative enough to make up such an exchange.

Fishing With Dewey:

An hour and a half to Shabbona. No beer, no drugs. Just the open lake and two determined men with their fishing poles...well, we were men, anyway. That's right, two men with fishing poles battling the open air and environment. This is how the cave man must have felt while foraging for food:

Me: You catch fish yet?

Dewey: No. Me no catch fish.

Me: Me no catch fish either. Need beer.

Dewey: No beer. Catch fish first.

I really can't explain it. You get two guys out in the woods and a primitive chord gets stricken (struck? stroked? yeah, I know English all right) that puts us in sync with our ancient Cro-Magnon relatives:

Me: Me need woman. Then beer. Then fish.

Dewey: No. Maslow theory of hierarchy of needs say we need food first. Then take care of higher pleasures.

Even in his Neanderthal state, Dewey can still turn the gears of the male psychology. Not that it takes much...

After four hours, we caught twice as much fish as we did on our last trip (you do the math). Then somewhere along the way, I realize that this is the week I actually start work, as opposed to messing around with books and halfassed lesson plans with a full bottle of Elmer's glue shoved up my nose. Fishing even more ardently didn't exactly drive this spell away, but when we got home and I got to play Bumblebee Bingo with Dewey's daughter, I was more or less back in tune again. And just twenty minutes ago, I called the printer that does the school paper printing and he said yep, even though I never heard of you until two seconds ago, I'm thrilled to work with you, and if you get that paper my way at the end of the week, I'll have it printed by the beginning of next.

Who rules? Gregg rules.

I've got a meeting with my staff at noon today. Some are on vacation, but the seniors are (more or less) going to be there, which means we can probably whomp something up for the first day. The schedule is really weird at this place:

Wednesday-Friday Orientation

Monday (next week) Staff day

Tuesday Campus orientation for students

Wednesday First full day of school

So technically, I don't start teaching for over a week. Fine by me. As long as I figure out how to relax while doing so. Blogging seems to help, never mind what wiggo says about it.

I more or less took the day off yesterday (after school, that is) to do laundry, draft the seniors' final exam and pack a few more things...wait, that's not taking shit off. No, I had to go to the burbs to run some errands, after which I hooked up with Tso and some others in St. Charles. Larry is now engaged, hot dog. The level of engagements has skyrocketed among my friends and family within the past year, and every time it does, I get a lot of speculative looks. Without getting into that, I figured there had to be some kind of pattern to engagements and how they occur (throughout the world, that is):

The Nine Types of Engagements

The "What are we waiting for?" engagement This type usually occurs between co-dependents, and I'd estimate its pervasiveness throughout the world at about twenty to thirty percent. These are people who "know" they're in love when they haven't strangled each other after dating a scant few months or whatever. Signs of this engagement include a lot of pre-engagement head-scratching: "Well, I can't remember her middle name, or where she's from, or her likes and dislikes, but we seem to get along, so whaddya think? Think I should pop the question? Huh? Hey, where you going?" Duration varies, but I wouldn't make book on them.

The "What the hell are you waiting for?" engagement When one party falls into the above and the other does not. I will refrain from comment here, Steve, so don't worry. I'm not going to embarass you any more.

The "I Need to share a bed engagement" Losers. Afraid of being alone. I wouldn't even characterize these people as co-dependents; more like non-independents. Duration depends on whether or not they can live with themselves afterwards. I guess it's too late to refrain from comment here, eh, Steve?

The "Las Vegas" engagement Done accompanied by dozens of tequila fannybangers and a run of good luck at the craps table. Most popular among men, for some strange reason (we're dumb). Most effective with either desperate Vegas townies or bored, indifferent showgirls. Duration: Four to six hours.

The "My Biological clock is ticking" engagement Let's face it, a lot of people want to have children these days. Perhaps more than should. And it's not just guys who have a biological clock either. Try running around after a bunch of teenagers in your house when you're in your sixties and then talk to me about the advantages of a 40's wedding. All of that's well and good, but as a singular reason for getting hitched, I'm not sure.

The "Shotgun wedding" No, I don't personally know anyone who got engaged like this, but I'd sure like to! I know they do go on. From the fiance's parents, it's "You're going to be a gentleman, damn you. I know you've been sleeping with my daughter, and if you run out on her now, I'll make you rue the day you were born." From the groom's parents, it's "Get this bum the &%$*# out of my house!" Pregnancies often contribute to this method's success. Duration depends on how long the parents are scary.

The "Oh, the world is a giant green M&M..." engagement These couples are pleasant to be around, for the first five minutes. Then you realize they're actually in love, stable without each other and better off for having found one another. Screw them. Duration of marriage is a loooooong time, provided the guy takes care of himself and doesn't die early.

The "Oh, the world is a giant red M&M..." engagement Same thing as the green M&M, except one of the people in the relationship had to give up a job offer or perhaps a way of life to be with the other. Which is fine, because hey, they're in love, right? But I could have gone to Washington and become a rock star. But I love him, right? But I would have made a lot of money. But...

The "Oh, the world is a giant wormy apple, rotten to the core..." engagement The world sucks. My job sucks. My car won't start, I live in a noisy neighborhood, and I'm probably going to die by the year 2017 anyway. I'm taking him/her down with me. Duration: forever. I'd better refrain from comment here, or I'll bitch whatever chances I may have at a wedding some day myself.

Want to get Wiggified?

Longing to delve into Wiglification?

Want to join the new Wignation?

Then check out wiggolation!

(Damn, I should be a poet.)

From the Mad Bull: Top Ten Occasions when the F-Word was Probably Acceptable. Hysterical. (The Mad Bull linked me back in April--I figure it's time to return the favor.)

Five essays to go, and then I can sleep. I could stop blogging, but then I would be denied these baser pleasures.

Top Five Teaching Movies:

Note that I've left obvious choices off this list. Movies like Dead Poets Society, Good-bye Mr. Chips, Mr. Holland's Opus and Stand and Deliver are moving and champions of the cinema. The trouble is, they're not quite as earthy as the typical classroom today (not, at least, as I see it). To me one of the supreme tests of life is to be able to go out there and give it all your got without the thought of an assembly in your honor some day, or a roomful of students applauding you and kissing your ass when you walk in the door. Give me a job like that and fuck the movie. The world has enough obvious champions. For once, let's celebrate the uncelebrated.

5) 187, 1997. Samuel L. Jackson.

Sure it's crap, in a sense. It's a teacher's wet dream: You know those bastards giving me trouble in my Chemisty I class? If I cut off their fingers, they'll shape up. And yet, when I watched it (and I plan to watch it again some day soon), I couldn't help but notice some part of my Id had been tapped. No, I would never think of such a thing, and even if I did, the sight of so much blood would probably make me sick. Yet don't we all squirm in embarassed pleasure at the honest suffering and misfortunes of an utter turd? Or does manufactured moral indignation subvert the baser nature that is humankind?

At the very least, Jackson is convincing, and gives some blistering yet effectively short monologues to his problem students. "This classroom is a sanctuary...yours and mine. Repect it," he warns one punk. Then, leaning in close for the kill with his patented Sam Jackson stare: "And for your information...I am a real teacher."

Until he started doing his vigilante bit, I thought the character was a good role model. Which is why he's on the list. Really.

4) High School High, 1996. Jon Lovitz, Tia Carrera.

Unrealistic? Only to a point, baby. The function of hyperbolic satire, as I see it, is to both make us laugh and put everything into perspective. Trouble is, that presupposes something to be put into perspective in the first place. When Lovitz's car is stolen, his new friend Carerra consoles him: "Don't worry about it. Everybody has their car stolen on the first day." Funny, yes, but it also hits home. You don't believe me, check out stats on teacher burglaries in city schools. It doesn't have to be a car. The watch you got for graduation which you left on your desk for all of ten seconds is bad enough.

3) The Blackboard Jungle, 1955. Glenn Ford, Ann Francis, Vic Morrow, Sidney Poiter.

Sure, they may have bastardized Hunter's book. In the original text, the moral of the story seems to be "keep on trying." Dadier has to contend with unruly classes (though Hunter wisely concentrated on one of them in his exposition), but by the end of the book, he's only managed to reach one of them. Still, that's enough, and rather than stop at telling us this, Hunter shows us as, in the closing page of the novel, we learn that "he (Dadier) was not sorry when the bell rang, sending them back to class (after lunch)." Words to live by. I kept them in mind myself.

Not so the movie. In it, Dadier (Ford) fights his class and weakly refutes his self-appointed mentor's proclamation that "this school is a garbage can." He fights the good fight, just like he does in the novel. Only by the end of the movie, pretty much the entire student body has realized the value of a good education, and his mentor is congratulating him. Point missed entirely, Mr. Brooks (director/screenwriter). It's about doing your job even when you can't see the benefits entirely. Tell me you didn't do that to The Brothers Karamazov.

2) The Principal, 1987. James Belushi, Louis Gosset Jr.

It's Eighties claptrap, for the most part, but one reason I always liked it is that Belushi doesn't try to be an action star per se. Yeah, he carries a baseball bat like it was Mel Gibson's sword in Braveheart, and he even rides a motorcycle through the halls of the school to prevent a rape, but it always seemed subtle to me for some reason. (Maybe because he forgot to suck in his gut in a few places.) Belushi tries, instead, to be an incompetent yet dedicated administrator, newly-appointed, whose primary motivation and most endearing trait is that he actually gives a damn. And it works, at least, enough so that, when being stalked by gangbangers towards the end, you're actually hoping the guy will get away.

1) Teachers, 1984. Nick Nolte, Jud Hirsch.

Great dark comedy--the biggest problem Kennedy High has in this movie is the teachers themselves. Those who aren't apathetic and tardy are dead (literally), mental patients (literally) or paranoid (figuratively). The main plot is supposed to be about a lawsuit that's shaking the staff up, but some of the politics are a bit unbelievable. The humor, however, certainly is. Opening shot: Nick Nolte's hand searching for the phone, knocking over beer bottles and cigarette butts, answers, only to be asked in a perfect edge of sarcasm, if he's going to come in this Monday morning, "or is this going to be one of your famous three-day weekends." "Yeah," Nolte growls, "I'll be there." "Oh, that's so wonderful," the secretary responds. "It's such a pleasure to have ambitious and hardworking role models here for our students to--"

I trotted this movie into the office one Finals week, and Rich watched that scene with me. "Funny," he told me bemusedly. "That reminds me of you."

Breaking News:

I found work!

And what work it is: Starting in August (a scant week and a half after I'm done with U. Bound), I'll be teaching full time at X.X. High. I'll be teaching Senior English, Journalism, and I'll have taken over the school newspaper. It's right smack in XXXX, my old stomping grounds from two years back.

How sweet it is. Not only am I about to make money, but the position looks solid, challenging and interesting.

Who's up for a round of drinks? I'm buying. (In September, that is)

Rantings of an anonymous, cowardly Internet book critic:

The Notebook

by Nicholas Sparks



Rubbish. Sap-saturated writing that tries to pull at the heartstrings, but tweaks the groin instead. I had the progression of events nailed by the time I was done reading the first two chapters, and that's most definitely not because I'm excessively bright. One-third of it could easily have been cut out, including (but not limited to) lists of what Noah cooks Allie for breakfast, or his post-Allie-breakup life when he winds up telling her anyway when she shows up. This is Must-See Novels; the alternative to watching Friends and trying to figure out why three guys don't just all have sex with Rachel so they can all be the father. Maybe for people who like romance, both in fiction and in life, this book will do the trick. But it definitely doesn't do it if you're looking for literature. Look, I live in the world, the real world that is, and I just can't believe people say stuff to each other like "You're the one I love, forever and always, Noah...I'll love you forever" without at least a few fights or nasty words along the way. If this is stuff we're supposed to measure our lives up against, give me a dish-throwing fight any day. You could read every other word in this book and still get the gist of it. I would have loved to see Noah and the mother duke it out when she showed up, though.

Anatomy of a Rejection Letter

Contrary to what this sounds like at the offset, I'm not a bitter man. Or boy, or child, or thumb-sucking baby whining about there being the need to exert effort in life in order to obtain the things one wishes. (Shit, I can't get the cap off my beer bottle. I think I'll scream until Kim comes to undo it.)

So this isn't whining I'm attempting here--it's rhetorical analysis. (The whining is an added bonus.) After all, I have finished my graduate work in rhetoric, have I not? Am I not a tall, sprightly, steely-eyed college graduate, capable of discovering exigesis in the most unlikely places? And if I'm not, can I fake it?

Absolutely. To demonstrate, let me recount the latest in what I'm sure will be an even longer line of rejection letters. I give you the one from the Shit College, which I had the honor of receiving today.

First of all, let it be said that this is a letter I pretty much expected from the start. I don't personally know anyone from my neck of the woods who's ever landed a job there, except one person, and I sort of assume she's been fired by now. So getting this letter wasn't a big slap in the face or anything--probably the fact that they bothered to send a rejection letter in the first place speaks rather highly of me as an unemployed teacher.

Second of all, Shit College does not mean "bad" college, but "good," as in "That college is the shit!" Why was this pessimistic from the start? See Reason #1 above.

Third, I am something of an expert in rejection letters. In the past four months, I've received them from high schools, junior colleges, two-year and four-year colleges and even overseas schools (some written in fluent English, some not). So I've been let down easy, and I've been let down abruptly before. Nothing new. In fact, let me go so far as to say those who only go after "sure things" in any employment arena without risking such letters are nothing but a bunch of high-rent pussies. "Going for it" is tough enough; going for the gold is what separates the men from the boys.

Having stated these disclaimers, let me get to the bare bones. Shit College needs a few lessons in the very rhetoric I am proposing to teach their students. This is, bar none, the dumbest rejection letter I've ever gotten for anything, including that high school bitch who wouldn't go to the Winter Dance with me. Her letter consisted of "Dear Gregg: I like you, and maybe I like you like you, but I don't really like you like you. Or else I really like you like you, but I don't like you like I really, like, like you. Wait, let me start over..." I had to go on medication drugs after reading that sucker. But that was Tolstoy compared to what I have in my hands right now:

Dear Gregory J. Long:

See? Right off the bat they screwed up. All my materials went out signed "Gregg Long." My father must have gotten to them, damn it.

After much time and careful consideration of each applicant...the Search Committee has submitted the list of finalists to the administrator. We are pleased with the number of well-qualified people who applied for this position, and are especially pleased with the outstanding strengths and accomplishments of those who emerged as finalists.

Right now, warning bells would be going off in my head if I didn't know better (that is, if I didn't know that receiving a letter rather than a phone call from an institution of higher education is pretty much the kiss of death). Apparently I was up against a ton of qualified applicants, which is never good news, especially for me. I've made a career throughout my life going for the popsicle stands and roller skating rinks purporting to be business establishments, so as to better distinguish myself. This is not something I can do while surrounded by people who are genuinely successful.

Our only regret is that we were unable to interview more (applicants).

Notice that we're one paragraph in and I haven't even been personally identified yet, save in the salutation. I have learned that there were a ton of great people who are finalists, though. Gee, I guess that must be a good sign, nuh?

(new paragraph) I apologize for keeping you in suspense for so long.

Now is that suspense over the materials I mailed to you back in fucking February, or suspense over this entirely useless first paragraph while you pat yourself and your other butt-buddies on the back over making the Queen's List...I mean, Dean's List? Cut to the chase already, will you? At least within another page.

I regret having this duty of telling you that you are no longer being considered for the position.

Whoah, I just about had a heart attack there. A real shocker.

Where to start with this sentence? "I regret having this duty of telling you" is, besides being excessively wordy, clearly an appeal to my pathos, or to my finer sensibilities: i.e. I'm to feel badly for her having this duty, and if I'd been a better-qualified applicant, she wouldn't now have to be going through the pain and agony of telling me to flake off. "You are no longer being considered" has other presuppositions, ones that are decidedly more shadowy. Was I ever truly "considered?" Or does "considered" entail no more than my letter sitting on some ditzy, gum-chewing secretary's desk for a week or so while she played "Eenie meenie" to decide which would go to the Search Committee, and which would be taken home for her four-year-old son to draw pictures of Mugworts battling Annakin Skywalker?

We truly appreciate your interest in College of Shit and your willingness to apply. We respect your abilities, accomplishments and the many contributions you have already made to the enrichment of our common profession.

Now which common profession would that be, Harriet? Teaching English? I know that can't be it; else you would have written "we appreciate your interest in the College of Shit." And I know damn well it's not teaching "Writing Rejection Letters 101" because you'd have failed hands-down. As for my "willingness to apply," that's a good one--I grant you that. Translated, it goes something like "You took time out of your busy schedule of heavy boozing and bowling to write a letter you knew damn well wouldn't make the cut. That says something about the nobilty to be found in futility. You should work that into a freshman comp lesson plan...too bad we know better than to let you do it at our school." Furthermore, if you truly respected my abilities and accomplishments, you'd probably be able to spiel off at least one of them, and then tell me why that didn't do it, right? Don't bother scrambling about for the file; your four-year-old already peed on it.

(new paragraph)Thanks again for giving us the opportunity to consider you for the position.

Sure, no problem. I bet you guys get a real kick out of dangling carrots in front of tethered mules, too.

I wish you the very best in obtaining your career goals.

Yeah yeah yeah, blah-de-blah blah blah.

Worst rejection letter ever. Think about the logistics of the situation. You want to teach how to write rejection letters, just like you'd teach how to write cover letters or successful resumes (see NIU's Education Employment Guide). In each of these cases, you're given a template to work with. The template here would be downright dangerous:

1st paragraph: Tell what a great time you had recruiting. Make it clear that the reader hasn't made the cut without explicitly saying so. Praise all the others who did. Drive his ambition into the dirt, but save a little for the second paragraph.
2nd paragraph: Let the ball drop. Make a few vague references to his skills, but make it clear that they're still below your standards. Thanking him for trying in the first place is optional. Wishing him luck is mandatory (what else can you give the poor slob?).

Still, all things considered, the joke's on them: I'm not graduating until December, so I wouldn't have been able to take the job anyway. Ha! Showed them, didn't I?

Who's the Man? Do you really have to ask?

My brother spent a glorious weekend here, his first since my undergrad days, after which he was sick for days and vowed never to return until I got a PhD. Must be the water. It's always the water that drives them away. Fortunately, I didn't tell him about my Comps mishap, so he arrived Saturday afternoon, right when I was in the middle of Metropolis, the japanimation flick from last year (review coming soon).

His first words upon entering my apartment were "Hey, this place isn't so bad. It doesn't stink like cat shit like your old place."

His next words were, "Where's your bathroom?"

His following words were, "You want to be my best man? I'll pay you fifty bucks."

His final words were, "You going to show me where the bathroom is, or what?"

Okay, okay, I was kidding about the fifty bucks part. And the other comments. Far be it for me to caricature my brother behind his back.

But I am going to be his best man, can you dig it? That's got to be a line on my resume--I formerly thought I wouldn't even make the cut to the wedding party. Must be the haircut. It's always the haircut. Usually, I'm lucky if I get a job parking cars.

Of course, in the face of such a request, I had to be diplomatic. I professed an honest desire to share the joy and the honor of the moment, to be blessed and take part in a sacred and holy institution of whatever church the two of them belong to. But that was all crap, of course--what I'm really looking forward to is giving the Best Man Speech.

As I understand it, this is my opportunity to drag his life out on a slateboard for the world to see and give the bride, if not a last chance to back out (presumably they'll already be married by the time I give the speech), at least some hindsight. This is also my opportunity to make a world-class ass of myself. The last several Best Man speeches have been nothing short of ruinous, consisting from the drunken and banal ("Hey man, I never thought it would come to this...uh...well like, I'm still single, ladies, even if John isn't...") to the drunken ("Now who was getting married again?") to the simply banal ("This is a joyous and honorable moment, and I am blessed for taking part in a sacred and holy institution of whatever church we're in right now..." God, that sounds familiar).

I've heard Best Man speeches where the brother listed a set of grievances against the groom--I could maybe tell about the time Bryan ate all the lunchmeat in the refrigerator so he could gain muscle. But then I'd have to tell about the time he beat up three neighborhood bullies who were trying to steal my lunch money.

I've also heard Best Man speeches where the brother told about drunken parties together and made vague allusions to the bachelor party. I could tell about how I came out to Augustana and went drinking with him, but then I'd have to tell how I drank too much too fast, got sick, and went home while the rest of them played football.

Screw. I'll come up with something. But it's just occurred to me that I'll have to plan a bachelor party. I'm not sure I'm up to the challenge. I'm not even sure he's allowed to have a bachelor party, and even if he is, I bet some of his other friends would do a much better job of planning it than yours truly, whose answer to Douglas Hall's Love Quiz of 1995 question "What's the best thing a guy can do to improve his sex life?" was "Get a partner." I haven't matured much since 1995, actually. But I hide it well.

Counter-point-counter:

This week: Jennifer Lichner, English Grammar Student, vs. Meleena Beer, English Grammar Instructor.

I So Don't Need Grammar Instruction

By Jennifer Lichner

Oh my God, I cannot be-lieve this instructor of mine. I mean, when midterms came up and I saw her name, I'm like, "You're not even the real teacher. That creepy tall guy in the back probably is." And she is so impossible.

Not only are we supposed to memorize all these parts of speech, but we've got to know, like, clauses and participles too. I mean, who cares if it's "I wish I was a millionaire" or "I wish I were a millionaire"? Somebody's really going to ask me that in a job interview, I am so sure.

Besides, we covered the rest of this junk in high school! Why do we have to go over it again? It's just busywork. I am so disillusioned with higher education right now.

Look, it goes like this. We get weekly quizzes, lectures, and three exams. And all we have to go on is the book and our class. How am I supposed to write down everything that's said in a class that's over an hour long? If it were about poetry or something I might be able to pay attention, but she and that Christopher Walken-guy are in Grammarland if they think this is interesting stuff.

Hear that? That's the sound of my notebook bursting apart at the seams because of all the notes I have to cram into it. That's also the sound of me slamming the phone down in disgust because I had a fight with Jake--he wants me to come over and watch Zoolander but I've got to study for this stupid exam instead. Thanks a lot, Melina. You're ruining my life.

P.S. Your hair is stupid.

---

Somebody get me a fucking drink

By Meleena Beer

Holy God, we're in Clueless! Change the channel, quick!

The problem with this stupid bitch is she's still looking for the handout she's been getting all along from Mommy and Daddy. Newsflash, Ms. Edison: You can't bribe your brain with another six months' car insurance and a cell phone. You've got to study, and in case they forgot to cover this in the John Hughes/WB hybrid of a high school you undoubtedly attended, studying does not mean doodling Hello Kitty and band insignias in the margins of your notebook while blasting Creed with the bass jacked up.

What's the difference between "was" and "were"? About $50,000 a year, if your corporate boss uses the tense correctly and you don't. It's called the conditional, you stupid cow.

Jesus Fucking Christ, I need a drink. If you went over all of this in high school, Barbie, you wouldn't be in my class right now, chewing your hair and drawing heart symbols on your goddamned knee. Pop quiz: How many nouns are there in the sentence "Who, me?" Holy God, she's actually counting on her fingers.

Hear that? That's the sound of my patience not just wearing thin but bursting apart at the seams. I promise not to grade your exams with any editorial comments--if I did, I'd probably get fucking fired--but if you ever want an opinion, you can bet the ten cans of hairspray you dump into that poif of yours that I think you're a leech on our fair campus, deliberately siphoning off part of the state's educational financial budget towards an oh-so-fucking-promising future in waitressing or professional suntanner on your parents' porch. And my hair is not stupid--you're just a goddamned moron.

Fuck me, who needs a drink?

With apologies to The Onion

The Open Letters Campaign

That's right, another dumb project to keep me from returning to work. The Open Letters Campaign is designed to give everyone out there a piece of the Flannel Diaries action. And since I just got a semi-fan letter (okay, just a letter, so sue me), we'll start with her. Contestant #1, get your ass down here!

An Open Letter to Stacy:

Dear Stacy:

That's right, Stace, I'm talking to you. Everyone else can go sod off.

You're great. You're aces, Stacy kid. You're a gentlewoman and a scholar. I thought I was da' bomb until I met you, and then I was forced to crawl back under my rock of shame and wither away to the pathetic nothingness I've been thus far clever enough to hide from the rest of the world. No really, I mean it. I know you're laughing right now and covering your face in embarassment, but listen girlfriend, get those hands away from that face and let your proud visage shine for the rest of the world to see.

Since we're talking, Stace, let me tell you a little bit about my graduate studies as of late. I just turned in an American lit paper and am beginning to think it might not even be worth the paper it's printed on. I know you say that a lot, but then your papers come back clean, sparkling and with an A and a smiley-face sticker on the front, whilst mine...well, I'm lucky if they even come back at all. On one I found a poison control sticker. On another, the teacher drew a picture of me sniffing glue and wrote beneath it: "I want you to stop doing this."

Well, that's all pie in the sky. (Do you have any glue?)

I know you fawn over my behind my back. It's okay. Lots of women are intimidated by my good looks. You can be too. I remember the first day we met, and how befuddled and out-of-sorts you were around me:

Stace: Hi, I'm Stacie Proovin. How are you?
Me: Yes, I do have a beautiful behind, thank you for commenting.
Stace: Huh?

Ah, the memories will last us a lifetime. Remember those hot summer nights, Stace? You and me under the slowly rotting sycamore along the banks of the refuse-saturated Kishwaukee River? Talking poetry, politics and propaganda? Long, slow sips from a can of Malt .45 Liquor? Slow drags off of a Phillies blunt? The possum that bit you on the leg and all I did was laugh? (Hey, I never said I was brave)

Well, here's what I want you to do, Stace. You print this letter out, and you stick it on your refrigerator door. And every time your husband comes home, or the kids you may or may not have in the future come clamboring for attention, or when the IRS man comes banging down your door at tax time, you haul out that letter and thrust it in your face and you yell at them: "Look here! Gregg thinks I'm awesome! If that isn't proof, tell me, just what is?"

And we all know what they'll say. "Gregg who?"

Sincerely yours,

gjl

Just found out I failed the comps. I'm going to go throw up now.

Bowling update:

Okay, so we're up one game and it's tenth frame of the second. Matt bowls a spare, but from where I'm sitting, I didn't see that the ball richocheted off a pin in the gutter in order to make the spare. Once I found out, well, big deal. Totally legal.

Our opponents didn't seem to think so, however, and two of them stormed off shouting "This is bullshit!" to whoever would listen (i.e. nobody). John went off to placate them, but Matt, I thought, was going to take a swing at one of them. Or both. Or all of us. A 98-pound weakling, Matt is not. And when I'm around someone who's not a 98-pound weakling, I tend to up my own weight class to the 110-pound weakling myself. So if there was going to be a rumble, I was all for it. I had the little guy staked out (with this team, the "little guy" was the one whose bowling gut was smaller than a basketball).

So we had our blood up for that last game. My two other games were pretty dismal, but all weariness left me at the third and I was knocking pins over like my life savings depended on it. I don't remember my final score, but I did well enough to hold my own, as did Andy. Probably John and Matt did too, but we lost anyway, which really pissed us off.

I am not, and never have been, a childish little prick, but I can play the role. And I did my best:

Me: Well we lost by twenty-five pins. Anybody want to contest?
Matt: No, I'm fine. I just don't like it when people start whining and acting like a bunch of little bitches.
Me: I'm sorry, little what?
Matt: Little bitches. You know, the kind that piss and moan instead of talking it out like a bunch of adults when they don't get their way?
Me: Oh, little bitches. Like these guys.
The opponents aren't even looking up from tying their shoes and putting their coats on. Our voices subsequently increase in volume, to make sure they're hearing us.
Me: Little bitches, little girls. I get you. You mean the kind that yell and stomp around?
John: Yeah, and the kind that don't say a word when they get their way, but just go back to business as usual?
Matt: That's the kind. They have plenty of them back home, in the day cares. But we have to spank their asses when they whine too much.
Me: If only that were legal by Illinois law.
Surly opponent #1: Hey, good game, guys.
He shakes all our hands. We don't even look at him.
Me: You sure you won fair? It could have been a twenty-six point spread.

Lest we should seem like bad losers, let me reiterate: that cocksucker wouldn't have been shaking any hands if he'd lost. And lose he will. It'll be a long season, and now I've got double the motivation to win that I had before.

Exorcism story on MSN

I don't know if it's true, but regardless, it makes great press for Liam Nisson's upcoming movie. I read Possession, the supposedly-true story of the Washington posession that inspired Blatty to write The Exorcist, and the worst behavior I can remember the subject exhibiting was peeing in his bed and shouting a multitude of curses. No climbing the walls; no head-rotating. Not even a crummy stigmata. I'm a firm believer in Manicheanism myself.

Note: My spelling in this blog sucks. Somebody get me a spell-checker.

Prince "Porter" Long
Better known as "the cat"
Born September 4, 1984 - Died February 8, 2002
"Thousands of years ago, his kind was worshipped like gods.
He never failed to remind me of this."
RIP

One of the joys of this particular New Year is that I get to start collecting Dear Johns from my job search. Here are the top contenders thus far:

"Dear Mr. Long: Thank you for your interest in our school. Although we are in the market for an English teacher with two years experience with a Masters degree, we currently have no openings that meet your qualifications...even though you meet those qualifications. Sucks, doesn't it?. Thank you for your interest in the Onaka-Emittance (translated stomach leavings) School of Japan."

"This message is for Greg Longg: Thank you for your interest in our school. We have no job for you at the moment, but if you become one with the Buddha, we are sure you will find yourself on the path to spiritual growth before you have to retire. Best of luck to you in your job search, you Godless American heathen."

"Mr. Long: Thank you for your interest in our Christian school. We are in the market for bright, budding young souls ready to embark on the spiritual journey to find Christ, and to bring with him as many suckers...I mean, students, as he can. We've prepared a spiritual q&a for you which, once filled out, will enable us to assess your value to our school. Question #1: What does it mean to be "one with God" in the classroom versus the library, chapel, or passing the smoky confines of a bar which you're too wise and holy to enter? Question #2: You have a student who says "god damn." How many times do you hit them with a switch? Question #3: Name ten ways in which Western culture saps the moral strength out of today's youth, and tell us what you intend to do about it, you snotty little wannabe expat. Question #4..."

There's been a definite progression. At first, most e-mail replies told me to go to hell. Once I convinced the more lucrative schools that I was indeed graduating with teaching experience, I was told, "Thank you for your submission. Now go to hell." And nowadays, I'm getting: "God be with you, son. And God be with you on your trip to hell."

Thus far, the Czech Republic school has been the only one to fall down on its knees and beg me to bring my English-speaking ass over to unload a can of linguistic whup-ass upon a roomfull of aspiring ESL students. They've started e-mailing me JPEGs of the U.S. dollars they're prepared to pay me (three of them in the last six weeks--how ya like me now?), but I still need a little more incentive.

Ah, the joys of racial humor...

http://www.engrish.com

--from Wiggo

Some asshole stole my bookbag in the library yesterday. You'd think I would know better than to even leave it lying around for a second. Well, I did...I left it around for more than a second. Not too much was in it (if my two binders had been in it, I'd be royally screwed), but a crucial notebook was in it, my computer disks were in it, and my personal organizer, which I just bought not even a week ago and which I was just getting in the habit of using. Not that my personal or work life is so complex that I can't remember my appointments--I just figured it'd be a better way to prioritize my time for studying for the MA, grading papers and doing homework. Now some asshole has it and has my schedule today, which I've had to construct from memory:

8:00-8:45 Eat breakfast, play with cat.
9:00-10:00 Lesson plans
10:00-10:50 Teach
11:00-12:00 Lesson plans/write reaction paper for 510
12:00-1:00 Lunch. Read Newsweek.
1:00-4:00 Library. Read Aristotle, Chopin criticism.
6:00-9:00 Class.
9:00-11:00 Bowling at Den (no bar)
11:00-1:00 Get drunk off $1 Killians.

See? Now I can be tailed. I've had to completely revamp everything:

8:00-8:45 Hide from cat; stare out window
9:00-10:00 Surf porno sites
10:00-10:50 Lead field trip to Huskie Den. Give lecture on geometries of the seven-ten split.
11:00-12:00E-mail professor and say that, because I lost bookbag, I will be unavailable to deliver my paper.
12:00-1:00 Lunch. Read Hustler.
1:00-4:00 Library. Read back issues of Playboy, dig through recycling for old department memos.
6:00-9:00 E-mail professor; tell him I'm still looking for bag and am unable to attend class.
9:00-11:00 Bowling at Four Seasons (bar).
11:00-1:00 Get drunk off Black & Tans.

That should throw them.

Arthur Walzer, in his "Aristotle's Rhetoric, Dialogism, and Contemporary Research in Composition," argues that Aristotle was not engaged in a dialogic argument, as many rhetoricians have argued since; the only reason we make such attempts at constructing history is to make it fit with current ideals and "truths." Walzer does point out, however, that just because Aristotle thought his audience was an ignorant bunch of louts is no reason we still can't make use of him to engage in dialectic discourse towards the discovery of a mutually-obtained conclusion constructed between both speaker and audience.

Hear hear. How many times do we have to keep raking the classics over with the rake of modern-day political correctness and humanism? Maybe some day they'll stop publishing editions of Native Son or Invisible Man because "we don't segregate any more." Besides, Aristotle's tactics would come in handy in some audiences to this day--just ask any high school freshman teacher. I know such a statement may damn me in the eyes of many educators--are we here to tell students the truth, or to equip them with the tools to discover it on their own? To this age-old question, I can only answer: "Kairos shall lead the way." It was good enough for the Greeks, and it was good enough even for medieval rhetoricians equating "Truth" with whatever they "found" in the Bible (and don't send me letters). It's good enough for me.

I might get in trouble for this...

Picture a man (or me, if you're going for realism) comfortably reclined on his sofa cum bed, a barely-read novel in his hand, the TV blaring The Simpsons with only half the usual amount of static, and a cat comfortably sleeping in a new bed (it being some three hours before said cat would decide to pee in said new bed). Kim is buzzing around getting ready for a small party we're going to in Sycamore, but I'm all decked out in my finest: sweat shirt, t-shirt, blue jeans without holes. It's the ideal kind of Friday night: somewhere to be, but nowhere too hectic. If this were a Norman Rockwell painting, I would have finally graduated to the old man with the pipe rather than the geeky red-haired eight-year-old who's always showing his rear end in the doctor's office.

Then a phone call comes. Kim answers it, mutters a few quick replies, then hangs up. My curiosity is mildly piqued at the quizzical look on her face. Upon mild interrogation, I learn that the host of the party just called on account of a show that's supposed to start on time.

My Spider Sense starts to go off a tad here. Previously, I'd been told this was a tupperware party, but one with free booze and food. "I'm there," I said.

Then I learned it was a candle party, but still with free booze and food. "Well, I'm still there...I guess," I said.

Then, after that phone call, I learned that there was a candle show to go along with it. "This doesn't have anything to do with me dressing in white robes and carrying a candle to some kind of altar for a human sacrifice, right?" I asked. "Okay, I guess I'm there."

It doesn't particularly speak well for my intelligence to note that I was more or less ambivalent about going to the party at this point. Key words like "presentation" "representative" and "candles" were not added together accurately in my subconscious; else I would have run to the hills like any sane person. And yet, I can hardly be blamed. I've heard of Patty Brite Makeup Girls and their suitcases of products. I'd heard of Avon calling. I vaguely remembered walking out of some kind of water purifier conference in Chicago some years ago. I'd never heard of someone selling candles like this.

Of course, I've never heard of a dating service for men who like sheep. But if I heard "dating service," "men" and "sheep," I suppose I could figure it out. Sadly enough, I did not figure last night out in time.

Well, we got there right in time to catch the last three-quarters of a fairly lengthy presentation on candles. There were short candles, long candles, middle-length candles; there were glass candle holders, multi-layered holders, ceramic holders; there were combinations of all of these hastily cojoined by some mad scientist in a mad scientist's candle making laboratory. The lady giving the presentation was effective enough--she knew enough about her material to keep an ongoing flood of commentary on the product line. The trouble was, she could tell by the look on my face that I didn't give a good goddam about candles, which made me minutely uncomfortable. I don't like to silently begrudge someone giving a presentation for their own livelihood (unless it's the band Like Hell opening for the Cult).

If that were all the evening provided, though, I could have lived with it. But things got a little weird soon enough.

First, the presenter had a strange little rule: Every time you heard the word "candle" you had to pass along a small candle that was being hot-potatoed around the room. If this were a lecture on the Big Bang, or perhaps the history of the automobile, it would have been a tad less distracting (again--not that I could have been distracted: distraction implies interest, and interest I had none). But since it's a presentation on candles, I couldn't help but wonder how this woman expected to keep anyone's interest for more than a milisecond if they were listening so hard for their turn to pass along the candle:

Presenter: Now when you light these candles--
Customer #1: Hey, she said candle! Pass it along!
Frenzied, drunken passing of candle. Wine spilled.
Presenter: Good job. Now like I was saying, when you light these candles--
Customer #2: Candle! Candle!
Another frenzied, drunken fumbling.
Customer #3: What were you saying about that candle?
Presenter: I have no idea--I didn't get that far. I was talking about this...thing (You can tell she's hesitant to say the word again, for fear of losing her audience's attention). You can use it on holiday occasions or just to set the right mood.
Customer #2: (drunk beyond human capacity) You're talking romance there, baby!
Presenter: Yes, the best way to set a romantic mood is by lighting a candle--
All: Candle! Candle!
Candle gets passed around; several more drinks are knocked to the floor.

At this point, I decided to get as drunk as I possibly could, and in the space of twenty minutes I downed three glasses of Merlot. Kim kept casting apologetic looks in my direction, which I perversely ignored. The two guys whose apartment this was taking place in sidled up to me and told me to go to the bathroom if I felt like throwing up, though I didn't know if he meant from the wine or from the presentation or from the rapidly-evaporating ennui from the repressed housewives around me.

It was a lot like being in a high school classroom, I must say. The presenter would start in on a monologue, one of the drunken housewives would chime in with a quip, everyone would giggle their asses off, and one or two more or less sober people would be reduced to hissing "Shhh!" to everyone else while the head presenter either smiled and kept talking, or smiled and waited for the ruckus to die down. I sympathize--I'll take a Basic Junior English class any day over those broads.

The topping "group activity/game" (a torturous phrase to me--it reminds me of those dorky getting-to-know-one-another games we used to play at Smelly's Camp when I was a wee slip of a lad) was called "Pass the Candle When You Hear the Name of a TV Show." Then the presenter read a fairly long speech about becoming a representative of the candle company (much like an Avon Lady, I would imagine) with the proper enunciation on certain words:

"I'd always wanted to live in a Little House on the Prarie, but I was Married With Children. So my dreams weren't quite there. But The Facts of Life are we all have to work hard at what we want, and these candles are a way to do that. You can be part of The A-Team of candle-selling and you and your family can all have a Silver Spoon in your mouth.

Everyone was congradulating himself/herself on managing to ferret out all the TV Show names when the clapping died down and all eyes fixed on me. The candle was still in my hand, where I had refused to relinquish it.

"Silver Spoon was no TV show," I said arrogantly. "I think you mean Silver Spoons."

Well that put everyone off their marmalade, and the presenter ran off into the nearest broom closet to cry her eyes out over my ruthless exposure of her ignorance of TV minutia.

Okay, okay, that didn't actually happen. I didn't even say anything about this little faux pas of pop culture, but I wished I had. At this point I'd downed most of the bottle of wine, and all the lit candles around me were beginning to swarm together in an eerie montage of lights, like one of those high-speed photographs of Lake Shore Drive. So smart-ass remarks would not have been out of the ordinary.

Then evaluation cards were passed around:

Question 1: Rate this presenter's performance from a 1-5.
My answer: "Not applicable. To me, candles are for getting rid of fart smells or cat pee reek. I can't see buying a crystal decanter for this purpose."

Question 2: How interested are you in obtaining more information on our merchandise?
My answer: "Not applicable. I haven't really gotten any information on this merchandise, though that's not the fault of the presenter."

Question 3: How interested are you in becoming a sales representative yourself?
My answer:" Not really interested at all, but what about combining it with bachelorette parties somehow? I could go into a striptease dance, and keep pulling out candles and somehow incorporating them into my act. Then, at the end of the show, they could be hosed off and sold."

I never did find out what the last two questions were. Kim took my card away from me and burned it before anyone could see it.

The good news is once the presentation died down and the crowds thinned, the evening was spent pleasantly enough. Kim showed off her wig, Scott showed off his computer, Bob played with his nephew, and I lowered the level of their wine bottles inch by beautiful inch.

But now I've become pathological about candles. Don't even mention them to me.

Price of pizza at Gino's East: $11.35
Price of five Black and Tans at Dooley's: $12.10
Price of bowl of soup at Denny's: $1.35
Value of an evening in the suburbs...Oh who am I kidding? I just wanted my $24 back.

Ballroom dancing is probably the one place left in the country where the old people are cooler than the young people. I don't mean "better," of course--it's rarely the case this isn't the case (okay, so it's redundant phrasing...go screw). "Cool" in this sense means all the things it's supposed to mean: "groovy," "flawless," all the qualities the Fonz used to embody. That was before the Fonz put on forty extra pounds and an extra chin, but that's beside the point. Kim managed to drag me onto the dance floor a grand total of sixteen times, and all of those times, I got showed up by a senior citizen:

Kim: That's great, keep it up Gregg, lift those feet and sway the elbows a little.
Old Man: Excuse me, could you two get the hell out of our way? We're trying to fandango here.
Me: Sorry, sir, I'll just move off to the side--
Old man: Did you look at my girl? I'll kick your ass if you did. I was in the war, you know.
Me: No, sir--
Kim: Go easy, pal. You can tell by looking at him he's got enough problems.

Kim's parents did better on the dance floor, but then, that's to be expected. If anyone had taken pictures, the people around me would have looked like they were in high-speed, while my pose would have been of me arms akimbo, eyes glued to my stationary feet.

Probably the best treat (besides the great dinner the parents bought us) was a day of cable TV. No pay movie stations, alas, but I did catch the middle third of As Good As It Gets. I've got Spawn 2 to watch later, and Kim's watching The Long Kiss Goodnight. (Why did that movie bomb? I'll never figure it out.) So my tradition of New Years movies will most likely go unbroken.